Meanwhile Hendrich stayed staring at Central Park.
‘How have you survived, Tom?’ He turned to face me. He was old, I realised. If he had been an ordinary human – a ‘mayfly’ as Agnes called them, straight-faced – you would have guessed his age as seventy. In our days, right now, adjusting for inflation, you’d go higher. Eighty plus. He looked older then than I have ever known him to look.
‘You have lived such a long time. And from what I hear you haven’t been doing so in the best circumstances. What stopped you from jumping off a bridge? What drives you?’
I looked at him. His cheeks sagged and his eyes had so many bags under them he reminded me of a melting candle.
I didn’t want to say the real reason. If Marion was alive I didn’t want Hendrich knowing about her. I didn’t trust anyone.
‘Come on, we are here to help you. You were born in a château. You were made for fine things, Tom. We will restore you to that life. And to your daughter.’
I felt things contract around me. ‘My daughter?’
‘I read Dr Hutchinson’s report. About Marion. Don’t worry, we will search for her. We will find her, I promise you. If she’s alive we will find her. We will find all of us. And as new generations emerge we will find them too.’
I was scared, but also, I confess, a little thrilled at the idea that I could get help in my search for Marion. I felt, suddenly, less alone.
There was a decanter of whisky on his desk. And three glasses. He poured a round of whisky without asking if we wanted one. As it happened, I did, to calm my nerves.
He read the label. ‘Look at this. “Wexford Old Irish Malt Whiskey Liquor. A Taste of the Past.” A taste of the past! When I was a young man, whisky didn’t even exist.’ His accent was hard to place. Not fully American. ‘But I’m a good deal older than you.’
He sighed wistfully and sat down behind the vast mahogany desk.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it? All the things that we have lived to see. In my case it’s quite a list: spectacles, the printing press, newspapers, rifles, compasses, the telescope . . . the pendulum clock . . . the piano . . . Impressionist paintings . . . photography . . . Napoleon . . . champagne . . . semi-colons . . . billboards . . . the hot dog . . .’
He must have seen the confused look on my face.
‘Of course, Agnes. The poor man has never had a hot dog before. We must take him to Coney Island. They have the best in the whole city.’
‘They sincerely do,’ said Agnes, who seemed to have lost a little of her sharpness around him.
‘Is it food?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’ He laughed, drily. ‘It’s a sausage. A special sausage. A Dachshund sausage. A special little frankfurter. It’s heaven in a bun. It’s what all of civilisation has been heading towards . . . If I’d have known, growing up in Flanders, that one day I would get to taste ahot dog. Well!’
It seemed strange. Had I been sent across the ocean – leaving a man dead behind me – to indulge in a conversation about sausages?
‘Pleasure. That is the aim, isn’t it? To enjoygood things. . . fine things. Food. Liquor. Art. Poetry. Music. Cigars.’
He took a cigar from his desk, along with a chrome lighter.
‘Would you like a cigar?’
‘I don’t enjoy tobacco.’
He looked disappointed. Handed one to Agnes instead. ‘It’s good for the chest.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said, sipping my whisky.
He lit their cigars and said, ‘The finer things. The sensual pleasures. There is no other meaning than that, I’ve discovered. There is nothing else.’
‘Love?’ I said.
‘What about that?’
Hendrich smiled at Agnes. When the smile returned to me there was a menace to it. He moved the topic on. ‘I have no idea why you took it upon yourself to visit a doctor about your condition. Maybe you thought, now superstitions like witchcraft aren’t so prevalent, that it was a safe time to do so?’
‘I thought it would help people. People like us. To have a medical explanation.’
